


The Moon and the Star

by duplicity



Series: The Adventures of Harry and Mr. Tom [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Angst and Feels, Child Harry Potter, Demon Voldemort, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentor Voldemort (Harry Potter), Platonic Cuddling, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24748912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: After asking a demon named Voldemort to bring him a best friend, six-year-old Harry Potter winds up with a lot more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: The Adventures of Harry and Mr. Tom [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785181
Comments: 67
Kudos: 673





	The Moon and the Star

**Author's Note:**

> sequel to [A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24692125).
> 
> this one's for all the sad moons in my discord server. love u guys.

In the three days following his visit from Mr. Tom, Harry keeps his chalk hidden away in his cupboard. He doesn't dare take it out to look at during the day, not while the danger of the Dursleys is a constant fear in the back of his mind.

When everyone is asleep and night has fallen, however, Harry can clutch the pink chalk in his hand and remind himself that it is real. Mr. Tom is _real,_ and he will be back with a new friend for Harry, just like he'd promised.

On the morning of the third day, Harry has the best stroke of luck. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia have decided to take Dudley to the local summer carnival for the day, and they will be leaving Harry in the care of Mrs. Figg.

Is this Mr. Tom's doing? Harry hopes so, because if this is a result of his own luck, it probably won't last long.

While Aunt Petunia is busy fussing over her darling Duddykins, Harry ducks into his cupboard. Once he’s sure no one is paying him any attention, he quickly wraps his chalk in one of Dudley's old socks and hides it in the baggy folds of his shirt. Harry tucks his shirt securely into the waistband of his baggy shorts and hopes that it’ll stay hidden there.

Harry tries not to seem eager at being left behind. What if Uncle Vernon decides that it’s better to leave him in the cupboard? But after a brief conversation with Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon decides it will be best to leave him with another adult. All three Dursleys will be gone all day long and not return until late in the evening.

According to them, even a freakish thing like him will need to be fed and watered eventually, and it will be better if it’s someone else's job to do so.

As Aunt Petunia walks him over to Mrs. Figg's house, Harry can feel the weight of his chalk pressing against him. His stomach is doing flips as he thinks about what’s to come. 

After being dropped off and given a stern warning to behave, Harry sits around in Mrs. Figg's stuffy house, trying not to sneeze at all the cat hair. 

He needs to save his sneezes for later, he reasons. So he can call up Mr. Tom. Harry hopes that Mr. Tom won’t mind if it’s not exactly the same place as last time.

Though Harry asks many times to be let go outside, Mrs. Figg refuses him all the way up until late afternoon. One of the kneazle cats, Tibbles, escapes into the backyard, and it is now Harry's job to coax it out of hiding.

A glance over his shoulder confirms that the elderly woman has no intention of following him. Harry breathes a sigh of relief and turns to face the yard. Now it’s time for him to draw.

Harry retrieves his chalk, unwrapping it, and starts to drag pink lines on the ground. First the circle, and then the star. It takes less time than expected. Harry feels a surge of pride at that. He's gotten quicker at drawing it.

Drawing complete, Harry casts his gaze around for the cat. Maybe he ought to have started with Tibbles first, he thinks with gloom. Because now the only thing preventing him from getting his promised friend from Mr. Tom is a stupid missing cat.

"Tibbles?" Harry calls out. He drops to his knees so he can look under the many unkempt bushes that Mrs. Figg keeps in her backyard.

No cat in sight.

Harry creeps around, searching, careful to avoid grass stains on his shorts. The longer he looks, the more worried he gets. How long until Mrs. Figg comes out to see what he's doing? How long until his opportunity to call Mr. Tom disappears?

Harry's chest tightens with anxiety. He wants to cry, but he won't. He won't cry. Dudley says crying is for babies, and so Harry has learned to shut his mouth and hold back his tears.

A soft meow startles Harry so much that he nearly tips head first into a bush. Harry whirls around and spots a cat on the pavement, its fluffy body sat in the middle of Harry's moon and star drawing.

It’s not Tibbles, but Harry is past caring which cat he has to use. He dashes forward and scoops the cat into his arms, buries his nose into its soft fur.

Seconds later, heart pounding, Harry sneezes. Loudly. So loudly, in fact, that the cat—Snowy—yowls and leaps to the ground, disappearing into the bushes.

The moon-and-star starts to glow bright red, just like the first time, and Harry holds his breath as the giant, blurry form of Mr. Tom appears in the center of the circle.

Blurry at first, anyways. A tall, dark shadow. But then the shadow grows colour, like a drawing that's being coloured in, revealing not the Mr. Tom that Harry had been expecting, but a _man._

* * *

Lord Voldemort towers over little Harry Potter, who glares at him with intense distrust.

"You're not Mr. Tom," accuses the human child, pointing a finger. That the finger trembles is a minor detail, for the voice is firm and full of anger. "Where is he? What did you do with him?"

Voldemort kneels down, reaches a hand to caress the child's arm. "It is I, Harry. I have taken on this form so as not to frighten anyone who looks upon us."

Just for a moment, Voldemort dissolves the illusion, flashing sharp fangs and oozing darkness. Harry blinks, and then the image is gone, once again replaced by the handsome visage.

Voldemort watches with interest as relief rolls off of the human's shoulders, the smell of it stronger than the anger that had been present mere seconds earlier.

"It _is_ you," says Harry, tones of delight returning to that young voice. "Is it hard to look different? Can _I_ do that? Can you teach me?"

"Ah, ah," tsks Voldemort. "One gift at a time, small one. We must not be greedy."

Harry's mouth drops into a small 'o' shape. 

"You brought me a friend?" Harry blurts, then seems ashamed of his lapse in restraint, looking down at the ground.

"I did promise, did I not? And I keep all my promises," Voldemort says, smiling.

Harry nods and bites his lip. "I believe you! I do, I promise that I do."

Voldemort touches the child's arm a second time. "I have decided," says Voldemort, "that the friends I could find for you were unsuitable for the task."

"Oh." Harry's mouth flattens into a line, and suddenly the scent of despair fills the air. "That's alright, Mr. Tom. I know you must have tried really hard to find someone for me." The child sniffs valiantly, raising the sleeve of a too-long shirt to rub at blotchy cheeks.

Confusion swarms through Voldemort at witnessing the human's desolation. In the half second it takes for the meaning to register, Harry has already composed his face into an expression of stubborn determination.

"Silly child," says Voldemort. "I have something better to offer you."

Harry dares to look hopeful, then, offering a shy glance up in Voldemort's direction. "Something else?"

"Oh, yes. Far better than any friend you would find here on this earth."

"Really?" Harry sniffles a bit more, snotty, then resumes his attempt at stoicism. "You don't really have to," he adds quickly. "I told you it's okay."

Voldemort suppresses an odd impulse to grin, instead choosing to stretch his lips over his facade of human teeth in a different way, showing the boy his muddled frown.

"I see, Harry," he says, affecting great sadness. "You don't wish to know what present I have secured for you?"

Harry scrambles forward to reassure, little hands gripping on the sleeve of Voldemort’s jacket. "No! I want to know. I want you to tell me."

Voldemort pats the child on the head, noticing how Harry goes still at the touch. "I have decided," says Voldemort, "that _I_ will be your new friend. Would you like that, small one?"

Those green eyes widen almost comically. _"You_ want to be my friend?"

This time, Voldemort does allow his impulse to reign free—he smiles down at the child clinging to his arm. Such a lovely soul, pure and innocent. It would be useless to spoil such a treasure now, not when the years lay ahead of them, years and years for this child to grow and mature into a harvest worth reaping.

"I assure you I do," Voldemort promises, stroking the youngling's dark curls with a gentle touch. "And no other friend would be as wonderful to you as I, don't you agree?"

* * *

Harry shuffles under Mr. Tom's hand. He's never had someone pat his head before. Not the Dursleys, not his teachers at school, not Mrs. Figg. Not anyone.

Mr. Tom is _special,_ though. Mr. Tom is nice and wants to be his friend. This is the luckiest day that Harry has ever had.

"Okay," Harry whispers. "If—if you want to be my friend, then I want to be friends with you."

Maybe Dudley is right. Maybe he _is_ a freak, and that's why none of the other kids at school want to be his friend, and that’s why he’s standing here right now, piece of chalk in hand, next to a strange man who only appears when called upon.

But now, Harry thinks, cheering at the thought, now he _does_ have a friend, a really cool one. And Dudley won't be able to make fun of him anymore for being too freakish to have friends, because it won't be true.

"Wonderful," says Mr. Tom. 

Mr. Tom’s eyes have little crinkles around them when he smiles. Harry wonders if Mr. Tom's other body does the same thing, and resolves to find out as soon as he can.

"Now that we're friends," Mr. Tom continues, "I have a new gift for you."

Harry can't help it—he gasps in surprise. _Another_ gift?

"You really don't have to," Harry says, now starting to panic. "I promise I'm really happy that we're friends. You don't have to give me anything else."

Mr. Tom pouts. "But I would very much like to. I made this special, just for you."

"Just for me?" Harry repeats. He feels very small and unimportant under the warmth of Mr. Tom's red eyes. The idea of a new present is quickly getting overwhelming.

Mr. Tom is much bigger and taller than Harry. Mr. Tom probably has many friends other than Harry, too. All of that is true, only Mr. Tom _still_ wants to give Harry another present.

_It doesn't make sense,_ Harry thinks. _I'm not special. I'm just Harry._

"I want to visit you more often," Mr. Tom says kindly. "Do you want me to visit?"

"Yes," Harry says immediately. "I want you to visit all the time."

"Then you'll need your special gift." Mr. Tom taps a finger on Harry's cheek. The nail feels pointy, like the claw that Harry knows Mr. Tom has. "Unless you don't want it anymore?"

"No, I do want it," Harry says, caving in. "You can give it to me. I swear I don't mind."

Mr. Tom pats him again, weaving fingers through the mop of hair on the top of Harry's head. "Very good. Now close your eyes."

Harry squirms at the praise and obeys as instructed, debating if he should hold his hand out or not.

Thankfully, Harry is saved from this decision as Mr. Tom places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once. Harry keeps as still as he can, even though he's practically vibrating with the need to know what it is. Mr. Tom must be able to sense his excitement, though, because Harry hears the man's dark chuckle close to his ear.

Something tickles his head. Harry twitches at the touch, then resumes his imitation of a stone statue as a weight settles around his neck.

"Open your eyes, small one."

Harry opens his eyes. There is a necklace on him. Or something that’s like a necklace.

Thick black ribbon looped around his neck, a clunky ring tied on the end. The ring sits heavy against his chest. Shiny black rock and ancient metal. It isn't the prettiest ring that Harry has ever seen, but it's _his,_ and that makes it perfect.

Harry goes to touch it, but is stopped by Mr. Tom's hand slipping around his wrist. The touch is light, and it doesn't hurt, but Harry flinches anyways.

"Sorry," Harry says worriedly. "I didn't mean to touch it yet. I'm sorry."

"Shush." Mr. Tom strokes the fingers of his free hand through Harry's bangs. Harry relaxes right away, happy that Mr. Tom isn't mad at him.

Mr. Tom releases Harry's wrist and picks up the ring instead, holding it up for Harry to look at. "This ring will call for me wherever you are, and I will come if I can."

Harry marvels at the ring for a second before another thought occurs to him. He can feel his face flush. It must be obvious, too, because Mr. Tom raises a brow at him in question.

"You will place the ring on your finger—any finger will do—and focus on your desire to have me with you."

Mr. Tom places the ring into Harry's hand. Harry closes his smaller fingers around it, learning the shape of the cold metal in his palm.

"Do you understand?" Mr. Tom asks.

"Yes," Harry says. "Yes, but—"

"But?"

Harry's chest is full of shame. He doesn't want to say this, but Mr. Tom has been so kind to him. It would be terrible if Harry was to lose the product of Mr. Tom's hard work because the Dursleys won't believe that the ring really is a gift.

"I really like this present," Harry says. "I like it a lot."

Mr. Tom waits patiently for him to continue.

"But I think you should take it back," Harry mumbles.

Shock flits across the man's face. "But why?" asks Mr. Tom, sounding bewildered and upset.

Harry has to turn away. He stares down at his shoes, at the worn sneakers that have duct-tape patches on the front. How is he to explain what will happen if he takes this gift home to the Dursleys?

"My Aunt and Uncle," Harry starts. Then he stops, uncomfortable. He rubs at his face again, willing his tears to stay in his head. "They won't believe me if I say it was a gift. They'll think I stole it somewhere."

There is silence.

Harry decides he is brave enough to look up, and he sees that Mr. Tom's mouth has settled into a frown, his brows drawn down with unhappiness.

"I don't steal things," Harry adds, nervous. "I don't! You believe me, don't you?"

"Of course I do. We _are_ friends, after all. And friends never lie to each other."

Harry shudders a little without meaning to. Hearing Mr. Tom call him a friend makes him feel guilty again. "Okay. So you know why I can't have your gift."

Mr. Tom frowns some more. Harry doesn't like seeing the frown, knowing that it's his fault.

"I'm sorry," Harry says miserably.

"You have nothing to apologize for. It is not your fault," Mr. Tom says, and it is the first time Harry has heard the man sound so harsh.

"Okay," Harry says. Even though he doesn't believe it, he doesn't want to argue with Mr. Tom any more. Mr. Tom is already upset that Harry has to reject his gift.

Neither of them speak for a moment, but Mr. Tom puts his hand back on Harry's shoulder, pinning him in place, preventing him from moving away.

"I have an idea that will solve your problem," Mr. Tom says eventually.

And then he reaches up for Harry's glasses.

Harry recoils without thinking, calmed only by the shushing noise Mr. Tom makes as he slowly removes the spectacles from Harry's face.

"I'm going to put a magic spell on your glasses," Mr. Tom says seriously. "And then no one will be able to see my present except for you."

"Oh," Harry says. Then he adds, "Really? That will work?"

Mr. Tom hums in response, lifting the necklace from Harry's body. Harry feels sad as the weight is taken away, but the necklace is quickly returned to him after Mr. Tom finishes with his magic.

Harry rubs his hand over the empty space of his shirt. He can feel the ring is there, but he can't see it.

Then Mr. Tom holds out his glasses. Harry takes them, noticing that the spell-o-tape on the middle is now gone, and puts them on. The lenses are clearer, too, and when Harry glances down at his chest he can see the ribbon and the ring.

"Wow," Harry says, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. The word 'wow' doesn't seem like enough, but Harry can't think of any better words at the moment. In fact, Harry is having trouble thinking about anything at all. His chest feels tight and weird. Harry rubs at it to try and ease the discomfort.

"Are you happy?" asks Mr. Tom, rubbing his hands up and down Harry's forearms.

Harry can't help it. The question and the touching of his arms stirs up whatever is making his insides feel funny. Everything he'd been holding inside spills out, his eyes burning and blurring for reasons unrelated to his glasses as he starts to cry.

* * *

Harry is crying.

Something about seeing this youngling cry is unsettling. Voldemort scrutinizes the child and attempts to puzzle out the meaning of the behaviour.

_(Has he done something wrong? Is the human child not happy with him?)_

The crying continues, goes on and on. Harry shakes in the grasp of Voldemort's hands, curling in on himself like a baby fern.

Voldemort frowns. Thankfully, Harry is too occupied with trying to halt his tears to notice this. Harry might have misconstrued the expression for irritation again, and then it is highly likely that the tears would have worsened.

Unacceptable.

Moving his hands to grasp at Harry's waist, Voldemort picks the boy up and drapes the small body against his shoulder, like one does with infants and other assorted small creatures. Not that Voldemort has ever had such a tiny being in his possession before; little Harry Potter is the first one.

Harry squeaks as his feet leave the ground, then hiccups loudly. "Wh—?"

They are both interrupted by a loud, feminine wailing. The sound grates on Voldemort's ears, and so he pivots to face the source.

An elderly woman is pointing at him and shrieking. At first, Voldemort thinks that this is neither surprising nor unexpected.

Then he recalls that, as of this moment, he is still maintaining the illusion of his human form. The form that he had taken in the hopes of appealing to the youngling currently clutching at his shoulder with snotty hands.

So, really, the hysteria is rather uncalled for.

Voldemort waves a lazy hand in a sweeping gesture, freezing the woman in place.

"What? Was that Mrs. Figg?" Harry asks. "Put me down!!" A tiny hand thumps on Voldemort's shoulder repeatedly.

"Shush," says Voldemort warningly. "I am thinking."

Harry goes quiet, but he continues to hiccough and sniffle with every other breath.

Voldemort absently lays a free hand on the boy's back, then decides Harry will likely be more comfortable inside of the house, with his aunt.

A flick of magic opens the back door, and then they are proceeding into the living room.

The living room is horrid. Dozens of photos of kneazles litter the surface of the coffee table. What available space is not covered by photos of cats, however, is covered with their shedding.

Voldemort banishes all the cat hair into the deepest pits of hell, where it will be put to good use torturing insolents with allergies.

"You froze her!" Harry yells, having finally caught sight of the unfortunate woman by the doorway. "You froze her! Put her back!"

_"No,"_ says Voldemort.

He seats them both on the couch, situating Harry in his lap. Despite having shouted mere seconds ago, Harry does not try to scramble away. His eyes are pink-red, his cheeks and nose shiny with wetness.

"Put her back," says Harry, in stern tones of offense, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I will do no such thing until our conversation is done."

Thankfully, Harry seems to register the finality of the statement, because he settles down, lower lip wobbling once more.

If Harry begins to cry _again,_ then Voldemort will be sorely tempted to vanish back into the underworld, where emotions of others are composed of 'immense pain' and 'ungodly terror', and humans only exist as torture subjects.

"Why are you so upset?" Voldemort demands.

The pouty lip wobbles anew, and Harry sniffles loudly, only to be cut off by another violent hiccup.

"I'm n-not," Harry defends, sounding perhaps one more second away from a fresh bout of tears.

Voldemort rubs at his face. There is a headache building at the base of his horns; horns that are not even currently visible.

"You began to cry _before_ I froze the human woman. Are you upset with me?" he asks, a final attempt at patience.

Harry squirms on Voldemort's lap, expression uncertain. His cheeks redden further as he drops his eyes to the pile of cat pictures on the coffee table.

"I'm not upset with you," Harry says in a quiet voice.

It is not a lie. Voldemort relaxes, and the atmosphere of the room seems much lighter.

"Then why are you upset?" asks Voldemort, now reassured that the issue, whatever it is, can be solved.

"I—I don't know," Harry mumbles, eyes once again beginning to water.

Wrong question, Voldemort thinks, perturbed, and sifts through his mind for a distraction.

What does Harry like? What do human children like?

Multiple thought tracks run through his mind as he absently pets Harry's head. Even his gifts had taken coaxing. Harry had tried to refuse each time they were offered—more than once, in some cases. Convincing Harry to accept a third gift is not advisable given the child's fragility.

This current situation calls for _direct_ action.

A snuffling sound pulls Voldemort's attention downwards. Harry has been holding very still, careful not to bump arms or shoulders against Voldemort's chest.

_Touch._ That is another mystery entirely.

Children enjoy being petted. At least, this one does. However, Harry leans into some touches but flinches at others. Therefore, like with the wildest of creatures, Harry must be approached with care and lured into feelings of safety and security.

Delicately, Voldemort curls the boy's head inwards until the side of Harry's face is tucked against his chest, sweaty hair flattened against the illusory sensation of black silk.

The snuffling morphs into a squeak, then peters out into silence. Voldemort cups the youngling cheek, giving it a pat. _There, there,_ he thinks distractedly, hoping the touch will suffice.

Harry does not verbally respond to his mental encouragement, but the scent of distress _has_ begun to recede. Voldemort drags a hand through the child's unruly hair, undoing the damage wrought by Harry's temporary misery.

Gradually, Harry's breathing slows. Though Voldemort can sense the boy's continual attempts to hold himself upright, to avoid leaning too much weight against Voldemort's arm and chest, it is a losing battle. Harry settles closer, eyes closing, small hand tentatively latching onto the loose silk that bunches up along the folds.

And so it goes on, with Harry drifting into the warmth of the demon cradling him. It is the either slowest passage of time Voldemort has experienced in recent memory, or the most compelling.

Harry makes a soft noise similar to a snort.

Voldemort ceases all supplemental lines of thought, narrowing his focus. If he is not mistaken, the youngling has fallen fast asleep and is now snoring.

The task of calming Harry completed, Voldemort turns a critical eye to the rest of the room. It will not do for the rest of the boy's relatives to return and see such a sight.

After a long pause, Voldemort detaches the boy from his shirt and sets him down upon the couch. Harry curls up on the cushion, a tiny frown marring his round face.

"I will return," Voldemort says to the silent room.

The ring hanging from Harry's neck will make sure of that.

* * *

Harry wakes to something scratching at his cheek. It takes several embarrassing moments for him to realize that he's lying on his side, his face smushed into a cushion, and even longer to realize that he had fallen asleep.

Then Harry feels something inside of him twist. He had _fallen asleep._ He'd wasted precious moments of seeing Mr. Tom because he'd been crying for no reason. He'd cried so much that he'd worn himself out, and then he'd fallen asleep on Mr. Tom's lap. No wonder he'd been put on the couch. Mr. Tom had probably gotten tired of carrying him.

Looking around, Harry opens his mouth to apologize, rubbing at his sore eyes and glancing around the living room.

"Awake now, Harry dear?"

"Mrs. Figg?" asks Harry, confused. He spins his head rapidly, searching for his friend. For Mr. Tom. For the smart black suit, or the tall dark horns that sometimes protrude from Mr. Tom's head.

Harry sees that all four cats are back inside and lounging on top of various bits of furniture.

The twisting inside of him gets worse. Harry pulls his knees up, wrapping his arms around them, and in doing so, feels something nudge against his thigh.

Harry feels all his arms and legs go loose as he slaps a clumsy hand to his chest, closing his fingers around the bumpy metal. His present is still here. Mr. Tom hadn't taken it away, which means he still wants Harry to call on him.

Tibbles meows, climbing onto the couch next to Harry. Unthinkingly, Harry drops the ring back down and picks up the cat instead, placing Tibbles onto his lap.

"Hello," whispers Harry. "You're a good boy, Tibbles, aren't you? You're a very good boy." He strokes the cat's fluffy fur. "And you have lots of really nice friends."

The cat purrs at his touch, rubbing against Harry's palm and fingers. Harry smiles.

"Would you like a hug?" Harry asks aloud. Then he watches for a response, waiting to see what the cat thinks.

Tibbles meows a second time. Harry decides that it's a yes, and wraps one arm around the furry body in a soft squeeze. Tibbles allows this, and sits patiently as Harry pats his head a few more times, staying put even when Harry sneezes.

"Harry," says Mrs. Figg. "I think your aunt is outside."

Somehow, Harry doesn't feel as sad as he usually does when he thinks of going back to the Dursley’s.

"I'll see you soon," Harry says to Tibbles, placing the cat back down on the carpet. He looks over at the rest of the cats. "I'll see you all really soon, okay?"

Tibbles butts his head against Harry's ankle. Harry gives the cat one last farewell pat, then nods at Mrs. Figg, who leads him to the door.

_I'll see you again soon,_ Harry thinks, taking a deep breath.

When Harry walks back with Aunt Petunia to Number 4, Privet Drive, he concentrates on the promising feel of the heavy weight laying against his chest.

When Harry goes back into his cupboard after cleaning all the dishes, he pretends that the ceiling is the endless night sky, mostly dark save for a few special places.

When Harry goes to sleep, little fingers tucked around Mr. Tom's ring, he imagines that he is a tiny star next to a large, luminous moon.

**Author's Note:**

> find me & my writing updates on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com)!
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing (and where i livewrote this story) [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


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